While i'm gone...

I don't know how i stumbled into this place. When i think about it, i'm residing at a four or five star resort for the cost of moorage. About $15/day. Love the water taxis back and forth from town - and i marvel at how the people who grew up and live here probably think of them as "normal" (would they be surprised to find that they are not in every coastal town?). This place is temptingly comfortable, but i better not get used to it. Not that i've been totally lazy here. After all, i'm trying to eat my way thru my perishables. Besides that i pickled the watermaker, got a coat of wax on the topsides, mopped out the bilge, etc... Now to pack.

Looking back...
I haven’t told you about dragging anchor. Back in January, in Bahia Marquer on Carmen Island: we’re close to shore, obviously, if we’re anchored. How close depends on the size of the anchorage, and whether the bottom is steep to shore or flat. I read the guides, consider the weather and the tide, and run the engine in reverse to test how well the anchor holds. I set the depth alarm in case we find ourselves in shallower or deeper water than expected… Later the alarm goes off. We’re in less than 20’? The wind has turned around and is building. Fast. Why hasn’t the anchor reset? If i let out more chain, will it reset in time? No, we’re too close to shore. I don’t have time to ask these questions. I’ve got to focus solely on getting the anchor up and getting out of here. Where’s the engine key? Hanging on the throttle. 17’. Find the ignition. 15’. Engine starts (whew!). 13’. We need at least 6.5’. If i go pull the anchor up, we’ll be on the beach before i can get back to the helm and put the engine in gear. And it’s too much to ask the windlass to pull the boat against this wind and these waves. Put the engine in gear NOW. Turn the boat so it’s aiming in the direction the chain leads and engage the autopilot. 11’. That’s how deep it is where the depth sounder reads just forward of the keel. How deep is it aft at the rudder? I hear the surf on the beach close behind us. Don’t look. 10’. Still losing ground, give the engine a little more throttle, but don’t want to drive right over and past the anchor and get jerked back towards the beach. Okay, that much throttle is gonna have to work, time to leave the helm and go to the bow, which is bucking way up and down. The anchor windlass control is hanging on the lifeline where i leave it...so i won’t have to get it out or look for it…so it’s ready in a situation like this. Run the chain up 10’, remove the bridle from it. Bringing the chain in as fast as the windlass can run, maybe i gave the engine too much throttle? Too late now. I see the 120’ mark on the chain go by. “Pull, c’mon, pull!” A wave crashes over the bow and soaks me. I see the 90’ mark go by. This sudden wind is still building. The chain that is still in the water leads down now. 60’ mark goes by. Now the chain leads aft and to port, the windlass can’t keep up, chain comes tight, i stop the windlass, bow rises on the next wave, lifting the anchor off the bottom. Bow splashes back down. Is there such a thing as “more soaked?” Running the windlass again. But the anchor is not in yet. May have to let the chain and anchor scratch the hull on its way in. Looking up to see if the boat is aiming in the right direction to get out. Here comes another wave. And the anchor, slams home on its roller. Back at the helm, rev the motor, drive over to the other corner of the bay where there’s shelter, drop the anchor, digs in and holds on the first try, put the bridle back on the chain. Go back to the cockpit, turn the engine off, watch for a while to make sure we’re holding position. Back inside, dry off, adrenaline in my system. Damn! There wasn’t much margin for error there. Any one thing wrong would have landed Akimbo in the surf on the beach on her side. Lucky there was daylight left. It would have been worse in the dark and waking up from anything deeper than a nap.

This kind of thing can leave a person aware of being vulnerable. It can set up some internal storms that one’s confidence will have to weather.

And in early March? As long as i’m unburdening what i’ve withheld… Every fisherman’s panga i’ve seen has been white. Often with some red or blue striping crudely painted from bow to stern, and the boat name no less simply, tho i imagine more lovingly, painted on – Dulcinea, Lupita,… Hey, this is a work boat, it’s not here to be pretty. Yet it’s beautiful in its lack of decorum, as a tool especially suited to its task. Another universal thing about the pangueros (fishermen who use pagas) is that they always wave back to me. So, in little Puerto Don Juan, where we anchored for a day to hide from the next big blow, some instinct went off in me when the only other boat there was a panga pulled up on shore. No big deal, i was used to being the only boat or nearly so. But this panga was gray, had no name, and of the four crew, no one waved back to me, one was doing push-ups? Hmmm. I ‘ve felt entirely socially safe in Mexico but that day...? Didn’t paddle over, practice my Spanish and ask if they had any langosta (lobster) to sell.

I guess today’s subject is safety...again. Why is this back on the page? I mention it because it is a big part of my environment. See, I’m about to sail out of my insurance coverage, so i’ve been trying to find other insurance. It’s not been easy. There’s a policy that will cover me but not for hurricane damage and not while single handing for more than 24 hours at a time…and triples in cost. Historically they can prove that what i am doing isn’t safe. I have to admit that they’re right. Safety is in the background when sailing anyway. Sailing alone pushes it into the foreground. I wear a chest harness whenever we’re underway (at night i add an inflatable lifejacket to my stylish ensemble). On each side deck a piece of tubular webbing is stretched from the bow cleat to the stern cleat – these are called jacklines. I try to create the habit of clipping my harness into them whenever i leave the cockpit. This attaches me to the boat. If i fall over, i’m on a short tether and hopefully can yank myself back aboard. Even on calm days, when i don’t need to, i clip in…usually. Whenever there’s any amount of weather, i clip in…almost all the time. Going to the swimstep to pee, i clip in to the backstay. I keep my wallet in my pocket with the nightmare that if i ever do fall over and watch Akimbo sail away…maybe it will help identify the body. I’d have a lot of resolving to do quickly before dying ‘cuz there’s more i want to do with this life (even if i don’t know what it is yet). With the boat at any speed over a knot or so and on autopilot, there wouldn’t be a second chance. I consider trailing a line behind us but it would pull me under even if i could hold on. When i get back to Seattle i plan to buy a personal epirb, one that will clip on my harness. It’s a beacon that transmits a mayday signal and location to aircraft and satellites overhead. We saw it work recently when the Mexican Navy came charging into an anchorage looking for the source of an epirb mayday...sure enuf, someone had accidentally tripped their epirb without knowing it. Maybe rescue could get to me quick enuf for a second chance? Taped on the bulkhead (that’s nautical for “wall”) in front of the nav desk are messages: “Boat owner is Jon Howe. In case of emergency call: Tyler Howe; Bud and Rhoda Tritschler; John and Cynthia McGrath” with their phone numbers…in case Akimbo shows up somewhere without me. There’s a website, boatsearchnet.org, that is all about finding overdue and missing vessels.

When i was young and “immortal” i wouldn’t have felt this reality so keenly. Sometimes something comes close that reminds me i can’t prevent every risk (jumping up to reel a fish in, put the autopilot on standby, let Akimbo round up into the wind, start reeling, NOT ducking when the boom comes across – but i am standing far enuf aft that this time it misses my head) – how many of these have i not been aware of? Had i done this when i was younger, my youthful arrogance might have gotten me killed. But then, maybe i wouldn’t have been alone. Now i count on my wizened age(?) to see me safely thru.

This visit to Seattle is timely. Frankly, this edge is tiring me out. That and anticipating the weather, being late in the season. If i think about it too much, i freeze in its headlights, won’t get off the anchor, put the boat up for sale, fly home and what? Hide? Worse would be not enjoying being here. And this is so enjoyable most of the time. This is so much closer to the firmament, the viscera, the unknown, than life in the city. Is the risk required? What will i remember? Incredible night skies, sunsets and rises, whales, phosphorescence – especially wrapped around porpoise swimming at night, people met, visiting crew, anchorages and harbors, Tarahumara Indians selling their wares, beautiful vistas, the riot of bright colors presented by Mexican homes on a hillside, fresh fish meals, good sailing…simple solitude and quiet, not a lot of "stuff" and all in its place, days sailing alongside a seemingly endless unbroken white sand beach, and always on to another horizon. Oh, another pleasure these last few nights – hearing the mosquitoes on the OUTside of the netting canopied over my bed. Thank you.

Present = available to the moment.

In Bahia Tenacatita, after paddling ashore for dinner at a cantina and walking the beach, i picked up my kayak to paddle back out to the boat. It takes a little attention to maneuver a 17' kayak thru a crowd of beach goers. Penetrating thru my attention i heard a young voice, "hola." I stopped and saw a little girl, maybe 7 years old, making eye contact with me. I stopped, smiled and said, "hola." And then went on.
Ooops. There i go again. Damn! Missing the moment. I wonder if she had to muster up some courage to say hi to me. She was obviously curious. Why didn't i stop, put down the kayak, and engage with her? I can imagine, "Como se llama?" Learning her name, asking her if she wanted to see my kayak, maybe sit in it, maybe meeting her parents hovering nearby... But no, i missed that opportunity.
I learn that i am not as present as i want to be. Presence. Can enhance our entire lives. C'mon jon, wake up, be here now.

In the meantime, i wonder if anyone else wants to be here. I'm looking for crew for a 700 mile offshore leg.
The flight i’ve reserved to fly back from Seattle is on June 15. I’ll then have about 550 miles to sail to Huatulco (a few overnighters and some daysails). From there i now plan to depart Mexico and arrive Costa Rica. Skipping Guatemala (too expensive in and out), El Salvador, Honduras and Nicaragua, and getting south of hurricane territory quickly. Depending on the weather, it could be hollywood fun or it could be tough. Sure, we'll get south of hurricanes but i expect we'll get into thunder and lightning. Fair enuf trade. Then i’ll have August and September to spend in Costa Rica and Panama?…waiting for at least late hurricane season before heading for Florida, or trying to skirt south of the storm tracks earlier.
Watching for a weather window, we’ll probably depart Huatulco in early July. Does anyone want to crew for me on this leg? Expecting it will take about a week to sail it. Who can take a few weeks off, and afford airfare? I’m happy to take care of the food and expenses. Just puttin’ the word out there, seein’ if anyone is interested. Thank you.

Meet me by the pool?

4/29/2010
Checked out with the Capitania de Puerto at 9, started out motoring in calm weather. Cabo Corrientes (Cape Currents) can apparently be challenging, especially in the afternoon when the wind comes up, when we’ll be there. So will give it some room. Don’t quite know why i’m leaving Banderas Bay so soon. Could spend a few more days here. But bussing into town one day was enuf for me. In no hurry but am on my way. At noon, hoist main, unroll genoa, great close reach at 7.4 knots. Rounded the cape at 2:15. No problem. The water has turned a brownish green, not at all the deep blue we’re used to. And the backs of the porpoise are freckled in white? Seeing a few flying fish. Sailing past sea turtles! Indicators of new territory, as we go south. But the water and air temps have dropped back into the 70s.

I decide to avoid as much overnight sailing as i can. For now, that means anchoring in tiny Ipala. Very cute. The pangas on moorings take up a lot of the anchorage. And there’s another yacht that i don’t want to crowd. The swells are keeping it rolling. There’s a cantina ashore but the surf looks intimidating and i decide to not kayak in or else to wait until morning’s calm. Glad i like my own cooking. Not real comfy here but probably safer than sailing all night. Anchoring in Mexico is very different than in the San Juan Islands. It is more exposed and often within earshot of crashing surf. Don’t know that i’ll ever get used to that, or sleep too soundly. Up four or five times in the night to check.

The next day’s weather was equally cooperative and much appreciated. The night’s anchorage in Chamela was much better. Paddled around in the kayak. It was more sheltered from the swell and wind, the surf was not so close by, and there was plenty of room to swing around on the end of the rode (nautical talk for anchor line and/or chain).
The guidebook made the next bay south sound appealing. It’s a little place called Careyes. I’m curious if Rick Steves or Lonely Planet or anyone recommends it. The setting is quite fantastic. Really, it seemed like a fantasy. Crowded with layers upon layers of very brightly painted adobe buildings perched on the steep hills that lead down to the bay. Some of the architecture quite fanciful. It felt like a colorful amphitheater and Akimbo and i were on stage. There is a hotel spread at its beach. Bobbing at their moorings were several private pangas. The bay enjoys some protection from a small island to seaward. I wanted to stay, but the weather was comin’ in around the island, and the pangas were taking up most of the anchorage. If Ipala was marginal shelter, Careyes was going to be even less so. After motoring around, trying to convince myself we could stay, i gave up, unrolled the genoa and sailed out. I’m sorry now that i didn’t at least take a photo (i think i've ruined my camera tho). I’d like to come back some day, even if it’s by shore.
On our way back out into the open, we sailed past what looked like a huge bowl on the coast. I’m guessing it’s a satellite dish for some sort of astronomy. Don’t know. It looked very unnatural, of course. Speaking of the incongruous, what is the most incongruous thing i’ve seen on this trip so far? In a small dusty, Mexican desert town, in the back of a pickup truck: a lawn mower. The nearest blade of grass had to be hundreds of miles away. I had to look twice. As long as i’m on to trivial notes to myself? I think the hardest working musicians are tuba players in Mexican bands. It’s been fun listening to their riffs.
So we carried on to Tenacatita Bay. Whenever i’ve asked people where to go on this coast, this bay is the first place they name. It’s big enuf to offer a diverse and contoured shoreline to explore (but frankly, it can’t compete with the Sea of C). For the second time my electronic charts seem a bit off. Last time they showed an island in front of Los Gatos that didn’t exist. This time they show Akimbo anchored a half mile on shore, high and dry. This discrepancy is not comforting.
I paddled into shore and went for a walk on the beach. There’s a campground at one end, a hotel at the other a mile away. For the first time since i’ve been in Mexico, not one of the vehicles parked by the beach had license plates from the U.S. That night, from the hotel, booming over the water came “Buenos noches Mexico!” in an entertainer’s best imitation of Robin Williams’ “Good morning Viet Nam.” For the next two hours we had disco on deck if we wanted it or not, so had to boogie a little. Afterwards, the night’s peace was a sharp and welcome contrast. The village at the opposite corner of the bay (about 3 miles away), Manzanilla, i liked better.
I’m thinking i could have made it to Acapulco before flying out. Or at least to Ixtapa where there is another good marina. In fact, i still could make that by the 15th. To be a little less late on the season’s weather. But my reservartions are from Manzanillo, and Barra is a good marina right next door. Maybe i can bump up my reservation, or i can slow myself down and trust that in two months we’ll arrive safely in Costa Rica.
5/8/10
Okay, we’ve ARRIVED! You should see this place. (Google Barra Navidad, Grand Bay Hotel) It is posh (know the origin of that term?). I may actually have to go lay by the pool? Or at least swim in it. The tennis courts are right behind our slip. As a moorage customer i get access to the rest of the hotel facilities. Including hot tub. And me, no i won't be using the gym. Luckily there’s a water taxi over to the nearby town of Barra Navidad (“real” Mexico). Listen to me. I sound like some sort of snob? I’m simply not used to this much luxury. But that doesn’t mean i can’t try it and like it. Still, i wonder. At how glad i was to weigh anchor and sail. Yesterday i lingered over the short sail here as much as i could. Past LOTS of jelly fish (the stinging kind). Even willing to sail below the “sanity barrier.” Get away from shore, and people, and… Again that feeling that something is changing in me out here. Whatever it is, i can’t direct it. It’s not coherent. Yet.